


Any Other Night – 3/9 – Broken

by motsureru



Series: Any Other Night [3]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-17
Updated: 2007-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:39:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Broken Glass, a Sylar/Mohinder-centric continuation after Season 1.  Spoilers for Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Other Night – 3/9 – Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [hugh](http://hugh.livejournal.com/) for beta work~ ****

**Teaser:** _How could such simple, offhand words carry such insult and humiliation to him?  
  
_

 

.3 Broken

 

“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Hanson. But I’m not really sure why you’re here.” 

Preston was wary of the FBI- any cop would be. Usually when the Feds got involved in any officer's case the boundaries of common courtesy were crossed. Everyone on the Force knew the FBI was trouble.

“I’d like to discuss with you your current case, Detective Preston,” the young woman replied, stepping to the side a little. “Mind if we take a walk?”

Taking a moment to straighten his jacket, Preston gave her a brief nod and began his steps. “Am I to assume that the FBI has information on this case that we grunts haven’t been privy to?” he asked before they even reached the stairs. He watched this Hanson woman’s face as she walked, analyzed the manner with which she held herself. 

“Not exactly. I’ve got a name flagged in the system, to follow up on a case that’s been otherwise dropped. The name ‘Sylar’. You entered it in one of your files, Detective Preston. What does that name mean to you?” Hanson was a woman who got right to the point-Preston understood that immediately. She asked the questions and took control, testing his knowledge before she offered hers. He had to stop on the stairs then, staring down at the woman.

“I’ve been following up the Gray murder in Queens,” Preston began, assuming she knew the basics just like every other person watching the New York news. “A book was left behind in Gray’s watch shop, leading me to this apartment. Seems there was a geneticist by the name of Chandra Suresh that had contact with him before his own mysterious death. I found his son here, Mohinder Suresh. I think he’s an accomplice. When we questioned him, he identified Gabriel Gray by the name Sylar.”

Hanson seemed to roll her jaw slowly from one side to the other, eyeing Preston, considering her options. She drew in a breath with what seemed like reluctance. “I’ve been following the Sylar case for months, and he just falls right into your hands,” she stated, though it seemed like a fact she stated more for her own sake, a comment of regret over uncontrollable irony.

Preston’s eyes narrowed, and he reached out, holding onto the banister of the stairs. “Are you telling me Gabriel Gray has killed others?”

“More than a handful. At least a dozen by now. I’ve tracked him across the country, only to end up back here at a dead end. The KirbyPlaza incident-”

“Gray?” Preston felt his chest swell with anticipation. “I heard that two people- a cop too- nearly died in that incident. But that changes his M.O. entirely.”

“Your case doesn’t have the Sylar M.O.,” Hanson pointed out. She leaned back against the wall behind her, crossing her arms over her chest. “Not entirely. When I started following Sylar, his M.O. was hard to pin- he was killing some people at random with household objects and taking the brains of others.”

A shudder came over Preston and his eyes squinted, mind trying to wrap around that idea. “ _Brains?_ What was he doing with _brains?_ ”

Hanson smirked, a bitter, angry sentiment buried there. “We would have liked to know, too. The victims were seemingly at unconnected. Heads hollowed out, brains removed. But your old lady in Queens-“

“A pair of yarn scissors. About as ‘household’ as you get. Though she was related- his mother- not random.” Preston swallowed. This case was suddenly getting far bigger than himself. There was a level of danger he couldn’t have predicted enveloping him- he was out of the frying pan. 

“What would it mean to you if I said Mohinder Suresh was at KirbyPlaza that night?” 

The jump Preston gave was like electricity through his body. “He knows something. I swear on my badge, he’s mixed up in this. He fled his apartment after questioning. I _know_ he’s connected. An accomplice! I just have to find him. Find a way to link them solidly!” He gripped his fist and hit it against his palm, feeling young again with the way his heart pounded over this case.

Looking down at the stairs beneath them, Hanson nodded to herself, confirming whatever thoughts she had on the matter. “I want to ask you something, Detective Preston.”

“Anything.”

Lifting her serious eyes to the man, Hanson uncrossed her arms. “Do you have enough substantial evidence to keep this case going?”

Preston felt his excitement begin to sink. “I… I don’t know. CSI didn’t even find a fingerprint. I begged every judge I know to get this warrant. But if I just-”

“My suggestion to you is to drop this case, Detective,” she replied flatly.

“ _What?_ Are you crazy? Let this guy go?”

“You’re dealing with things far beyond what you can handle,” Hanson continued, looking like she had to clench her jaw and bite her cheek to get the words through her teeth. “The Sylar case… it almost ended my career. It’ll do the same for you. If you don’t have enough to go on… then I suggest you let it go. I pulled every resource I could- I let it go before I lost more than just my name. I’d like to keep the job.”

Shaking his head, Preston stared at the woman in disbelief. Give up? After she’d handed him the tip of an iceberg of information on who Gabriel Gray was and where he could be going- after whom he could be going- she wanted him to just drop it? “I’m onto something here, Hanson. I know I am. If I can find Mohinder Suresh, I’ll get my answers.”

“Suit yourself. I just came here to pass along the word. You’re going to get yourself killed or fired. Probably the former,” Hanson stated with a little more open disdain than she meant to. The bitterness of her ruin still stung acridly. She turned and began down the steps again, but this time Preston did not follow.

“Wait!”

Before she turned, she looked back up.

“Hanson… just give me the names. Give me the list of names from KirbyPlaza. Give me something to go on. Tell me something more,” Preston insisted, imploring her with an open hand. “It’s my career to ruin- I’m already in dire straits. I just don’t want anyone else to die.”

Staring for a moment, Hanson considered her options. Finally she looked down, her blonde hair falling over her face. “…Alright. If you’re this serious… Let me get approval to release the records… You’ll have your contacts.”

 

He’d turned his back for one second and Mohinder had done it. One second, and the opportunity was lost; the possibility sank deeper into oblivion, was cast farther out of his reach.

“Two beds, please.”

Sylar looked over his shoulder sharply- so sharply that the woman behind the motel counter gave a short jump, expecting him to say something. Instead Sylar quickly smiled and offered some lame comment about the cold. He lifted his eyes to Mohinder, but Mohinder was merely putting down the cash for their room for the night, all else ignored. 

“Room 15, around the corner.” The woman smiled nervously and handed over the keys.

“Thank you.” Mohinder stepped back and out, suitcase in tow, and Sylar was left to follow behind in silence. Sylar slid his own free hand into his pocket when the icy air hit him again and watched Mohinder’s careful footsteps down the sidewalk.

Two beds.

How could such simple, offhand words carry such insult and humiliation to him? Had he done something wrong the day before? After he’d pleased and spent Mohinder, after he’d driven him into the sheets and to shameless begging, had Sylar done something offensive, or worse yet, not done something he should have that lovers were supposed to do? What did Mohinder expect? Maybe the answer could only be found in trying again- in the attempt to make Mohinder think he needed what Sylar could give him once more.

Two beds was a failure on Sylar’s part. But one room was another victory. He could do this. He could figure it out.

When they reached their room, Mohinder unlocked it calmly and entered it as if he was used to these conditions by now. The cramped quarters of motel provisions, the mixed smell of the old and the disinfected, the distasteful art on the walls: they all spoke of discomfort, and yet Mohinder seemed to carry himself in a way that was above all of that. A room was a room was a room.

“If you’d like to shower first, go ahead,” Mohinder offered as he placed his suitcase upon the far bed, pausing to unravel the scarf he’d replaced about his throat earlier that night. The dim light of the cheap 40-watt bulbs and cream colored walls made him look like a shadow against the wall. Sylar’s lips quirked at the edges. He had to start now.

“Is that a good idea? I might take all the hot water,” he replied, tone low and with a dangerous sound, but clearly teasing.

Mohinder stood straight again, giving the man an odd look. An attempt at humor? Mohinder couldn’t help but smile faintly in return. “I think I’m prepared to deal with the consequences.”

Sylar walked past the man, touching his shoulder as he did. “Suit yourself.” His fingers lingered as they slid away, and soon Sylar had disappeared.

Feeling a shiver fall down his spine, Mohinder ran a hand through his dark curls. He took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly with a puff of his cheeks. When he heard the water turn on in the bathroom, he finally opened his suitcase and dug about for a change of clothes. He’d shower in the morning to keep himself alert. Right now he just wanted to let the caffeine fade away and sleep overtake him before he let his unprepared mind turn over any more stones.

It was twenty minutes later that the water stopped, and shortly after the door was heard opening. Mohinder was already beneath the covers of his twin bed, dressed in his boxers with the pale covers pulled up to his chest. He laid sitting upright, pillow propped, and facing the television. The end of some sitcom was playing out its credits, fading into unimportance as the evening news came into view.

Sylar stepped out and past the television casually, though he was clad, surprisingly enough, in only a damp towel. He offered no explanation, but stood dripping, heated, and mostly nude before the end of his bed as he pulled over his unopened suitcase to fetch a fresh set of clothing. He heard Mohinder’s pulse quicken, but didn’t let his satisfaction show.

Mohinder let his eyes flicker only briefly over at Sylar. The first time, it was brief. The second or third glances, he was observing subtle lines, subtle structures- the way Sylar moved, now that he was Sylar and not Zane or someone hospitalized. What made Sylar appear so confident at times and so withdrawn others?

“You’ve got a thing with watching me put clothes on,” Sylar said out of nowhere, glancing up in time to catch Mohinder in the act. He smirked softly as he pulled out a pair of black boxer shorts. 

Mohinder gave a start and his gaze shot hastily to the television screen. “What? Don’t be silly.”

Sylar chuckled lightly and closed his suitcase again. “You did it in the hospital too. The first day. Should I worry about dropping the towel?”

Mohinder felt himself flustering a small amount. He was being teased. “I’ve seen it,” –was his terse reply.

“…” Sylar stared at him for a second, baffled by the candidness of that response. Finally, he gave a short laugh. “So you have…” And the towel dropped briefly while he slipped into his boxers. Mohinder was pointedly not watching. Sylar set his suitcase on the floor, crossed the room again to put away his towel, and finally returned to slide beneath the covers of his own bed. He couldn’t help but feel a surge of fulfillment from their exchange. If Mohinder was joking with him, he wasn’t ignoring him.

“The search continues for Gabriel Gray,” –came the voice from the television, all succinct words and enunciated syllables. Sylar couldn’t help but look over to the screen, wondering what the public at large had to say about him. “Although the police have expressed enthusiasm for tracking down the alleged suspect in the brutal murder of Virginia Gray from Queens, sources say that the lead in this case may have, in fact, been a dead end.”

Mohinder sat up a little straighter, watching as the reporter became a voice over for the image of Gabriel Gray standing side by side with his mother appeared before millions of viewers. All thick glasses, sweater vests, and sappy smiles.

“Detectives on the search were hesitant to give reporters detailed information on exactly what kind of lead they were pursuing; the suggestion that Gabriel Gray may have worked with an accomplice was one police refused to comment on. Although no firm evidence has been found that Gabriel Gray is, in fact, at fault, he is still wanted for questioning and remains at large. If anyone has any information or believes they have spotted Gray, police encourage them to contact the local authorities.”

Sylar leaned against the headboard of the bed and pursed his lips slightly. 

“It’s only a matter of time,” Mohinder began, “before they release my name and picture.”

“They won’t do that,” Sylar countered, shaking his head and glancing over at the man. “If they don’t have any solid evidence, the police won’t risk having New Yorkers enact vigilante justice throughout the city. They’ll keep a tight lid on the case. That detective isn’t stupid.”

Though he wanted to feel at ease, Mohinder simply couldn’t, knowing he was being chased down yet again by some force with more power than himself. He gave a short sigh and scratched the back of his head. Their options were going to be limited in the days to come, thanks to the media. Or was he being too paranoid?

“Besides, they haven’t said any details about the accomplice. For all they know, it could be a woman, rather than a dashing male geneticist,” Sylar offered with a small grin, enjoying the way Mohinder looked uncomfortable from that comment. 

Mohinder’s smile was a weak one, several different conflicting thoughts on his face. He shook his head. “I can’t really imagine you being with anyone. Some girlfriend accomplice.”

Sylar arched an eyebrow at that, turning his body a little beneath the covers to face Mohinder. “Why not? Boring old watchmaker couldn’t strike anyone’s fancy? Bad with words? Glasses too thick?” A subtle resentment resounded in that comment, one that Mohinder feared pushing any further.

“No, no, it’s not that. Only that…” Mohinder frowned as he considered his words more carefully. “I suppose I could never imagine you thinking of anyone as… good… enough for you. I don’t see Gabriel Gray when I look at you.” Mohinder’s eyes moved in Sylar’s direction as he spoke. “Gabriel Gray is a stranger. I never knew him. But… as Sylar, I just don’t envision anyone being able to challenge you enough. I don’t see anyone being able to reach your level. I think you could have been with someone, certainly… but not as you are now.”

Sylar’s fingertips began to twist idly at the fabric of his comforter, his eyes never leaving Mohinder’s face as he explained himself. As Gabriel Gray… why _hadn’t_ he ever cared to find anyone? To have the sort of experience he’d shared with Mohinder? Women, men, they were all the same to him, somehow… “When you spend your life learning how to fix things,” Sylar finally said, “You tend to notice the broken parts a lot more. There are a lot of broken people out there… people I had no intention of fixing.”

“Aren’t I broken, too?” Mohinder countered softly.

Sylar’s eyes narrowed. He wanted to be in that bed. He wanted to reach out and touch Mohinder’s face, feel his skin when he spoke those words in muted light. The urge was suffocating. “It’s different with you.”

Mohinder shook his head again. “Why? Why should it be?” 

“It’s not a fault. It’s…”

“Special. Right?” The words sounded condescending, sarcastic.

Sylar paused, realization numbing- almost paralyzing. 

“… Did I break you, Mohinder?” The scintilla of fear in his voice whispered of those quiet insecurities he dared not express, not even to himself.

A long sigh was drawn from Mohinder’s lips, and he scooted down in the bed a little, adjusting his pillow so that he might lay back and gaze at the ceiling instead of the television or Sylar’s face. “…No. I was the way I was long before you came into the picture. You just… motivated me.”

A frown of confusion this time. “Motivated you?”

“To fix it. To even find out what was wrong.” Mohinder paused. “In a strange way, I should thank you. Since we crossed paths again… I’ve come to realize a lot of things.”

Deep-seated excitement began to buzz through Sylar’s head. Was he on his way? Was Mohinder’s hidden armor breaking apart, finally? That Mohinder should admit such a thing made Sylar anxious in ways he struggled to comprehend.

“I think you have, too.” Mohinder followed up his words with a sidelong look towards the man. “At least I hope so. You talk as if all your life’s revelations happen when you kill. But I think there are others you’ve had, and might still have, if you walk a different path.”

Sylar smiled a little at that, a small, disbelieving sort of smile that bordered on condescension in return. “Are you trying to save my soul, Mohinder? Twenty years of Catholic services couldn’t do that.”

Mohinder found himself unsurprised by the cynicism. “The soul is about more than just religion. It’s about the essence of what you are- who you are. It’s about trying to connect with other people, and discovering yourself that way, too.”

“Your father once told me the soul is in the brain. I see the soul when I look inside. That’s my self-discovery,” Sylar replied frankly.

Taken aback by that comment, Mohinder twisted to his side, leaning up on an elbow. “Do you know what a soul does, Sylar? It searches. It’s always searching. For itself, for others like it. But you won’t find them by opening peoples’ skulls.”

“I don’t have one,” he replied grimly. “That’s why I consume them when I look in. To fill the void. I’m a soul eater.”

Mohinder swallowed. “That’s not true.”

“How do you know?”

He drew in a slow breath. Theoretical talk bordering on religious ideals… Mohinder was no expert at such things. He feared misspeaking, but struggled to continue anyway. “All you’ve done is blanket your soul in darkness. Covered it. It’s still searching. It reaches out, gropes, blindly now, always trying to touch something distant that you won’t let it.”

The pause Sylar granted them was too meaningful. He felt his control over words slipping from between the webs of his fingers. The question was one he felt he had no choice but to pose. “Even if what it wants is right here?”

Mohinder’s very blood froze. His heart stopped. This was dangerous ground; dangerous, in that he still wanted to project their farce of a relationship as insignificant. And yet if he said nothing now, or said the wrong thing, Sylar might just as easily choose to walk out that door and return to his former life of murder. 

“…Especially if it’s right here. That’s when what it wants is hardest to see,” he concluded finally. Mohinder lay back against his pillow, letting his eyes trail across the cracked and uneven ceiling.

“But yours… it isn’t searching back, is it?”

Mohinder closed his eyes. “…Usually we aren’t aware of what our souls are trying to do.”

A long silence followed, and Mohinder listened as Sylar leaning back against the headboard of his bed sounded once more. The heat of Sylar’s gaze had lifted, and Mohinder willed the heaviness in his chest to do the same.

The television flicked off. The lights went out. A false silence flooded the room.

Mohinder wondered if Sylar went to sleep by the beat of his heart.  



End file.
